


In the game of thrones, the prize goes to a watcher

by Perelynn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:23:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perelynn/pseuds/Perelynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events in the Whitewalls castle seen from a new angle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the game of thrones, the prize goes to a watcher

The silk of her dress whispers the song of a summer rain when she walks down the corridors of the Whitewalls castle. The trick is not to look anyone in the eyes. She knows the game well; her secret is safe. There are many ways to watch without looking. 

The viewing stands are filled with richly-garbed lords and ladies. Servants glide around offering fruits, wine and lemon cakes. The summer heat is over the Whitewalls, and the highborn guests are sweating in their velvets and furs. When she takes her seat, the watchers on the nearby benches move closer to her involuntarily. The air feels cooler around her, fresher, like a gentle breeze from the sea.

‘Ser Alyn of House Cockshaw,’ the portly herald calls. ‘Ser Glendon Flowers, the Knight of the Pussywillows. Come forth and prove your valor.’ 

She smiles. Young Glendon Ball has proved his valor many times today, coming victorious from every joust he took part in. She smiles and she knows the young bastard sees her smile. For a moment, her face is the only one he sees in the viewing stands, the rest of guests just a mix of colors at the background. The boy has red hair and a fiery temper. She never had attraction to fire, but she admires the sparks. 

Ser Alyn Cockshaw bites the dust. Glendon turns his horse to have another look at her. She touches her full lips with her fingertips. The red-haired knight startles and moves his own hand to his mouth, feeling her kiss. She knows his fame won’t last. He might as well get some sweetness along with the bitterness that awaits him. 

‘We are betrayed!’ a loud voice proclaims, and she knows the time has come. ‘The dragon egg is stolen! There he stands, the thief. The whore's son. Seize him!’

***  
Young Glendon Ball can barely sit a horse. His face is bruised and swollen, several of his teeth are cracked or missing, his right eye is weeping blood. His hands are clumsy, but he grabs the tourney lance all the same. This time, he doesn’t look at the stands searching for her face. He is not looking anywhere but at his opponent, whose hair flows down to his collar in a cascade of silver and gold, whose eyes are like two amethysts on a sleek face. 

Together, they command the attention of the audience. No one, not even the sentries on the walls, sees or feels the danger creeping over the castle. When they finally notice, it’s too late. She finds herself smiling dreamily, enjoying the feeling of sweet tension in her stomach, her usual reaction to magic. She can almost see the invisible net entangling the castle, the net that only one spinner could weave. Both red curls and silvery-gold locks are equally unimportant when snow white tresses come into play. 

The Brown Dragon is still sputtering some nonsense about riding hell bent for King’s Landing, but the new master is already entering the Whitewalls, a white dragon breathing out red flame on his banner. 

His eyes spot her momentarily. He gestures. The servants come running, bringing him something wrapped in cloth-of-silver. He unwraps the cloth, making people on the stands gasp and yelp and shout in astonishment. She is the only one showing no signs of surprise. She knew what was coming. She knows what comes next. 

‘What say you, sister?’ he calls. 

All the heads are turning her way. She stands up and pulls back her hood, and hears the collective sigh, and feels the nearby benches vacate fast. 

‘Marry me. You promised.’

She laughs, walking down the stairs. The dragon egg, _her_ dragon egg from now on, is by far the most exquisite thing she’s ever seen, its hard shell a beautiful pattern of red and black, the red reflecting in the only remaining eye of the man who is holding it in his hands.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she replies. A devious smile blossoms on her lips when she sees the impact of her words on him. There is rage on his face, and annoyance, and the old hunger, and the old hope. Hope most of all. A stubborn, indestructible hope.


End file.
